Early the following morning, Emma surfaced from sleep, Cal’s subsequent disclosure bold text in her brain. ‘When our mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s ‘bout ten years back,’ he’d said, sorrow clouding habitually bright eyes, ‘Dugald and I were reassured by the gerontologist that she’d be looked after in a home especially designed for dementia patients. I took her to the place myself, not far from New Dandenong. It looked good, pleasant staff, lovely rooms, lots of activities. Mum seemed quite happy when I left. A few days later, I got a call telling me she’d died. Heart attack, the manager told me. Dugald said it was for the best and reckoned there was no need for a post-mortem. But Mum had nothing wrong with her heart, so I insisted. Same result, of course.’
The day before, afraid to
